The fire burned brightly, and sent up clouds of smoke, which excited dread in Dexter’s breast for a few moments, but the fear was forgotten directly in the anticipation of the coming feast, in preparation for which Bob kept on adding to the central flame the burnt-through pieces of dead wood, while Dexter from time to time fetched more from the ample store beneath the trees, and broke them off ready for his chief.
“What are you going to do, Bob!” he said at last.
“Going to do? You want to know too much.”
“Well, I’m so hungry.”
“Well, I’ll tell yer. I’m going to roast them cray-fish, that’s what I’m going to do.”
“How are you going to kill them!”
“Going to kill ’em? I ain’t going to kill ’em.”
“But you won’t roast them alive.”
“Won’t I? Just you wait till there’s plenty of hot ashes and you’ll see.”
Dexter had made pets of so many creatures that he shrank from inflicting pain, and he looked on at last with something like horror as Bob untied his kerchief, shot all the cray-fish out on the heathy ground, and then, scraping back the glowing embers with his foot till he had left a bare patch of white ash, he rapidly thrust in the captives, which began to hiss and steam and whistle directly.